1
In the tale of Persephone
which should be read
as an argument between the mother and the lover—
the daughter is just meat.
—Louise Glück, “Persephone the Wanderer”
why did i do it?
why did i lie?
everyone wants me to blame religion, my mother, the country in flames behind us, but i was not an unhappy child. we danced and colored and folded little paper boats to float in the bathtub. we tried our best and locked the doors and installed sensors in the windows. if i am to blame, it is only because i was forever curious, forever climbing onto the sill to peer out the locked window at the lives continuing outside. i was not unhappy, only restless. only hungry to know what we were trying to keep out. it was i who opened the doors, the windows. it was i who let him into the house.
BAD GIRL
all the aunties in the neighborhood love
to remember that i was a sweet kid
laughing & dimpled & affectionate
& these reveries always end with a sigh
as they look at me now, sixteen
& what they call, sorrowfully, boy crazy
but ever since i was small i’ve wanted
to be loved
when it was the aunties i’d reach for
to be embraced, to be kissed, it was fine
but ever since i was small i would lock eyes
with boys on passing buses, in passing cars
& wonder if i could make them love me
though all my life, mama has taken great care
to make sure i never find out
MY NAME
it all started when a boy whose name i wish i did not remember
he & his family long since returned to sudan
told a lie that begat another that begat several more
& in the eye of that storm hissed my name
samira
the littlest exaggeration, intended, i’m sure, to be harmless
to get his friends to stop laughing at his inexperience
his chest puffed out, an untruth forming between his teeth
the insistence that he had, that he does. with who? they mocked.
samira
we liked each other, passed notes back & forth
at sunday arabic school, glanced shyly over at each other
at eid gatherings, our hands brushing once at an iftar buffet
but nothing more. we barely spoke. never touched. but still
samira
& now he’s long gone, years since the story took root
& poisoned my name, so long ago that people barely remember
the lie itself, the story, only the feeling they get when they look
at me, the disgust, the reproach, embarrassment on behalf
of my mother, & also something darker, something gleeful
& carnivorous, sinking into my name, my reputation
& drawing blood, teeth wet & red & shining
samira
Copyright © 2024 by Safia Elhillo. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
